Undercover Refuge. Melinda Di LorenzoЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter 4

      Alessandra breathed out, watching as Rush and Jesse continued their conversation. She was sure her instincts should be screaming at her to argue with what was about to happen. To protest against being carted away by a stranger. But something in her gut told her that Rush was the safer bet. It was strange. She’d known Jesse Garibaldi since they were kids. Their fathers had been buddies. Yet seeing him today—hearing him call her the old nickname—made her want to walk very quickly in the other direction. And that feeling that his invitation wasn’t a coincidence solidified even more.

      Are you sure that’s not just a bias created by Dad’s letter? she asked herself.

      As she thought about it, she bit her bottom lip so hard it hurt. Truthfully, it was a possibility. The last thirteen days definitely had her on edge. Suspicious of everyone and everything.

       Except for a certain not-a-truck truck driver.

      It was true. As uneasy as she’d been about the first sight of his weapon, her crazy run into the woods had been a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else.

      She sneaked another quick look in his direction. In their direction. Then quickly looked away as she realized both men were looking at her, too. Jesse with a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes, and the brown-eyed stranger—whose first name Alessandra still didn’t know—from behind his sunglasses. She assumed his look was displeased. Brooding, even. Because as much as he’d tried to be dismissive about being ordered to be her own personal tour guide, she was 100 percent sure that he hadn’t been happy about it.

      And why is Jesse ordering anyone around, anyway? she wondered.

      She fought an urge to look yet again. The last time she’d seen him was at her mom’s funeral, and the interaction had been brief and specific to the situation. Words of condolence and a promise of getting together more often than they had in the past. But nothing had ever come of it. In fact, until now, Alessandra hadn’t even known where Jesse was living. And if it hadn’t been for the circumstances driving her forward, she was sure she would’ve found some excuse not to come at all. Aside from the friendship their fathers shared, she wasn’t sure they had enough in common to make maintaining the connection a priority.

      Jesse was a few years older than she was, and even when they were younger—she a kid and he a teen—she’d regarded him with a strange kind of awe. Jesse had always been clean-cut. Mild-mannered and average-looking. Ready with a smile. A go-with-the-flow guy. But she’d seen him manipulate his own father so easily that no one in the room noticed. She’d been sure he could tell someone—anyone, maybe—that black was red and red was white and that they would just buy it. He that was slick. That smart. Always determined to get his way. And rarely didn’t get it.

      She, on the other hand, was anything but slick. She spoke her mind when she shouldn’t. Her mom had told her ad nauseam that her middle name ought to have been “stubborn,” and Alessandra couldn’t deny it. She’d turn down a deal if it didn’t sit right, and would probably do so to the detriment of her own livelihood. That wasn’t to say that she was over-the-top altruistic. It was just that she let her emotions lead it all—her heart, her head and her mouth on far too many occasions. It was even how she ran her surf shop. On gut instinct rather than savvy.

       Used to run.

      She flinched at the mental reminder. Eventually, the insurance would kick in. Eventually, she would get her home and her shop and her life back. She’d rebuild.

      “But that’s not the point,” she said out loud to herself.

      But what is the point?

      She wasn’t really sure. Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The men were focused on each other now, instead of her, thank goodness. Discussing something intently.

      She breathed out. Maybe the point was just that she didn’t feel comfortable with Jesse. That slight bit of awe she’d felt as a kid had morphed into something else. Intimidation, maybe? He still had that same easygoing demeanor. It was clear that he’d put his wits to good use, and his business in Whispering Woods was thriving. The welcome sign on the way into town even had his company logo on it. But something felt off. The gut that Alessandra used for her business transactions was screaming it. Jesse had lackeys, for crying out loud. Like Ernest, the terrifyingly burly man who seemed to communicate in grunts. And Mr. Sunglasses, who she realized was currently striding toward the not-truck with a scowl.

      “Crap,” she muttered, quickly turning her gaze to her lap.

      But her concern over being caught staring was unfounded. As the sour-faced man flung open the door and climbed in, he didn’t even glance her way. He didn’t speak as he started the truck, either. And the negativity was rolling off him like a dark cloud. If Alessandra hadn’t been so worried about his reaction, she might’ve tried to roll down the window in an attempt to cleanse the air.

      She knew she should probably be asking for some more details about their destination. How far away was it? Would there be a phone? Other amenities? Would anyone else be staying there, too, or was she stuck with the stone-faced—but undeniably attractive—driver? But her usually overexcited tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. And after a few more moments of weighted silence, she settled for closing her eyes and performing one of her mom’s favorite breathing exercise instead.

       In-in-out. In-in-out.

       Deep in.

       Out-out-in. Out-out-in.

      It was almost enough to distract her. Or it might’ve been, if the man called Atkinson hadn’t chosen to cut through her moment with a throat-clear. At the sound, Alessandra’s eyes flew open, and her head swiveled toward her reluctant tour guide. He was staring straight ahead, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

      “So which is it?” he said, his abruptly gruff tone making her blink.

      “Which is what?” she replied.

      “Al, or Alessandra?” He sounded annoyed by his own question.

      Alessandra frowned. “What?”

      “Your name. Which do you prefer?”

      “No. I mean. I know what you’re asking, but—” She cut herself off and shook her head. “Never mind. A lot of people call me Al.”

      “Like Jesse.”

      “Yes.”

      He went silent again. Brooding again.

      The moments ticked by, the air thickening with some unnameable tension.

      Alessandra breathed out and started to close her eyes once more. But her companion spoke again, his tone just as irritated as it had been a minute earlier.

      “Think I’ll just stick with calling you Red,” he told her.

      “Fine by me,” she replied curtly.

      She tried again to shut her eyes, but then narrowed them at him instead.

      “What about you?” she asked.

      “What about me?”

      “What do you prefer to be called? Mr. Sunglasses or Surly Stranger?”

      “I’m not surly,” he said.

      “You are,” she argued. “But that wasn’t an answer to my question.”

      “It’s Rush.”

      “What’s